Betrayal

by Will Jordan

  Still, Drake wasn’t hanging around to find out. Rushing down the stairwell and back outside, he passed the police cruiser parked outside the apartment block and headed west, away from the freeway and the heavy traffic that was already starting to back up around it.

  Once he was sure he was out of sight of the apartment building, he turned south and picked up the pace. His car was two blocks away, and he needed to get to it fast.

  Keeping his head down, he turned off the main drag and took a footpath running through a grassy area between two residential buildings, then fished out his cellphone and hurriedly scrolled through the list of apps until he found one with the innocuous title DateCalculator.

  At first glance it appeared to be nothing more interesting than a personal organiser, but in reality it was a sophisticated piece of encryption software developed by the Agency to allow their operatives to make calls without fear of interception. In Drake’s case, it allowed him to speak freely with other people on the same encryption scheme – even the Agency itself couldn’t listen in.

  Inputting his personal access code, he waited a few seconds while DateCalculator enabled secure mode, then finally dialled the number he wanted. Technically it was after hours, but Drake knew the man he was calling didn’t keep to office hours any more than he did. It was one of the perks – or otherwise – of being the director of the CIA’s Special Activities Division.

  As he expected, it rang several times before it was answered. The recipient of the call would have to input his own access code to allow DateCalculator to link the two phones and create a secure line.

  ‘Yeah, Ryan?’ Dan Franklin answered at last, sounding more harassed than usual.

  Drake and the director of Special Activities had served in the same composite unit in Afghanistan years earlier, and had forged a strong friendship during their tour together. Their lives and careers had taken different paths since then, and the burden of leadership had strained their relationship more than once, but Drake still considered Franklin a friend. And he had few enough of those nowadays.

  In this case, however, he wasted no time on greetings. ‘Dan, we’ve got a problem.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘The kind when someone caps off shots from a high-powered sniper rifle into a busy freeway.’

  That was enough to get his friend’s attention. ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘Take a guess.’ Drake paused a moment, waiting until he’d passed by a runner out for some evening exercise before carrying on. ‘I was opposite the building when the shooting started. It was overlooking the 395 just west of Garfield Park.’

  ‘Jesus. Are Metro PD aware?’

  ‘You could say that. Two of their guys just tried to arrest me.’

  His words weren’t lost on Franklin. ‘What do you mean, “tried”?’

  Drake winced inwardly. ‘Had to give them the slip.’

  ‘Christ, Ryan. You’re supposed to be a case officer, not Jason fucking Bourne. You aiming for a spot on America’s Most Wanted?’

  ‘You don’t understand – they turned up right after I did,’ Drake hurriedly explained. ‘Unless they happened to be passing by when the shooting started, there’s no way they could have got there so fast. Which means they were tipped off in advance. Someone was trying to set me up, Dan.’

  ‘Possible, but who?’

  He paused for a moment, wondering whether he was doing the right thing by dumping this on his friend. But he knew he couldn’t sit on it and do nothing. Franklin had to know. ‘Anya.’

  At that moment, any lingering doubts Franklin might have had about the severity of this call vanished. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ Drake said, recalling that moment up on the roof. ‘She was standing right in front of me. Looks like she was the shooter.’

  ‘Any idea what the target was?’

  ‘I saw a pair of luxury Mercs on the freeway that looked like they’d been fucked over. Couldn’t make out the plates, but I think they were part of a diplomatic convoy. Join the dots and it looks a lot like an assassination.’

  His friend exhaled, digesting everything he’d just heard. ‘Talk about stirring up a hornet’s nest. What the hell is she up to?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine right now,’ Drake admitted. ‘Listen, I need you to do me a favour.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The police weren’t the only ones to arrive in a hurry. An ambulance pulled up at the crash site within seconds, then left in a big hurry. I couldn’t see what they were up to, but it didn’t look right to me. Can you check around the local hospitals and see if they brought in any crash victims? The closest one from here is George Washington University.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. What about you?’

  ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here,’ he replied, fully intending to put as much distance between himself and those two cops as possible.

  ‘Good. Try to stay out of trouble.’

  ‘You know me,’ Drake assured him.

  ‘That’s what I’m talking about.’

  There wasn’t much Drake could add to that. Closing down the call, he pocketed the phone and pressed on, keeping his head down to shield himself both from bad weather and from curious onlookers.

  His car, a black Audi S5, was still sitting where he’d left it. A quick flash of the key fob disabled the alarm. Drake couldn’t get inside fast enough, eager both to escape the biting wind and to get away from the crime scene.

  Within seconds he was off and moving. And once again he fired up his cellphone.

  Chapter 5

  With a strained, breathless cry, Keira Frost closed her eyes, arched her back and dug in her nails, the taut muscles of her body held rigid as the sensations within her built to an unbearable crescendo, and then finally exploded with glorious release.

  Breathing hard and still quivering with aftershocks of pleasure, she opened her eyes and collapsed on top of her partner, for the moment absolutely spent.

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ she said, her voice low and husky. She could feel the fast and powerful beat of his heart as she rested her head on his chest.

  Rick Berkeley, a mechanic at her local bike shop. Mid-twenties, tall and well built, with scruffy blond hair and a jawline permanently roughened by several days’ growth, he’d caught her eye the very first time she’d met him. She’d known he felt the same way about her, though it had taken him a couple of months to work up the courage to ask her on a date.

  Normally she had no time for men who were indecisive or timid, but in his case she’d sensed another motive for his hesitation. He’d been trying to play the gentleman by not making his interest too obvious. Fortunately for him, Frost wasn’t looking for a gentleman.

  She’d told him as much about an hour ago.

  ‘Worth waiting for,’ he said breathlessly, the words rumbling against her ear.

  Grinning, Frost sat up, leaned over him and picked up a half-empty bottle of Corona from the bedside table, downing it in one gulp. Still flushed with the post-orgasmic glow, she was feeling pretty good about herself at that moment.

  All things considered, she liked Rick. He was smart without being a smartass, confident without being a domineering jerk, and as she’d just discovered, he wasn’t entirely clueless between the sheets either.

  Might be worth keeping around for a while, she mused. And maybe putting his skills to the test again later.

  She turned towards him, curious as to whether he was ready for Round Two, only to find him staring at her. But his look wasn’t the glassy-eyed stare of a satisfied partner. Rather, she saw curiosity, surprise and even a hint of suspicion in them. And she knew why.

  Sitting upright and naked as she was, it was inevitable that his eyes would stray across her exposed body. The demands of her difficult and dangerous job as a Shepherd specialist had endowed her with the firm musculature and toned physique of a professional athlete, but they had also left another legacy that she was less enthusias
tic about.

  ‘What did you say you did again?’ Rick asked, eyeing the jagged knife scar on the left side of her ribcage; a little memento of an operation in Somalia where she’d discovered that stab vests weren’t all they were cracked up to be.

  Frost felt a brief flash of annoyance and, much to her chagrin, self-consciousness. She’d never had any hang-ups about her body, had never fretted and agonised in front of the mirror wishing her breasts were bigger or her ass smaller. But in situations like this the physical toll her work was taking was becoming harder and harder to hide, and it wasn’t something she liked.

  In any case, what was she supposed to say? She certainly couldn’t tell him that she was a highly trained CIA operative who took part in clandestine operations in foreign countries. For one thing it would put Rick’s job selling engine parts at the bike shop into serious perspective, and for another she simply wasn’t allowed to talk about it.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she replied, leaning forward and kissing his neck as she allowed her hand to stray down to his crotch. ‘Isn’t it more interesting that way?’

  His mind might still have been filled with questions, but it was obvious enough what his body wanted. And as her movements became more forceful, the body began to gain control over the mind.

  She was just beginning to feel her own desire rise when her phone started ringing, abruptly shattering the moment.

  ‘You’re fucking kidding me,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘Leave it,’ Rick grunted, kissing the sensitive skin on her neck and working his way down to her breasts.

  Frost hesitated, looking over at the phone on her bedside table. There weren’t many people who knew her private cell number, and she had worked hard to keep it that way over the years. She had no time for idle chit-chat, and even less for telemarketers.

  If someone was calling, it was likely a family member or …

  ‘Hold that thought,’ she said, pulling away from him and snatching up the phone.

  It was Drake.

  ‘What is it, Ryan?’ she began, unable to keep from sounding a little flustered. And typical of Drake, he picked up on it right away.

  ‘Caught you at a bad time?’ She could have sworn the son of a bitch was smirking.

  ‘I’m allowed a life outside work,’ she pointed out irritably. ‘Even if you’re not.’

  ‘Fair one.’ He was wise enough not to rise to her rebuke. ‘I need your help.’

  She heard movement on the bed behind her and felt Rick’s hands encircle her waist, moving upwards to cup her breasts, gently squeezing and caressing. Normally she wouldn’t object to such a move, but right now she needed to concentrate.

  ‘With what?’ she asked, trying to shrug out of his embrace.

  ‘There’s been a sniper attack on a freeway in central DC. Looks like a possible assassination.’

  Rick wasn’t getting the message. It was time for a less subtle approach. Reaching behind her, she got a good grip of his genitals and twisted; not quite hard enough to cause damage, but enough to show she could if he didn’t back off. Straight away he let go.

  ‘And you’re involved?’ she asked as if nothing had happened.

  ‘I am now,’ Drake remarked. ‘An ambulance was on the scene right after the attack. I want to know where it went.’

  ‘Maybe a hospital?’ she suggested with unveiled sarcasm.

  ‘Thanks for the insight, but I doubt this one was on the books. It happened too fast.’

  ‘You think it was a lift?’

  ‘Maybe. Either way, someone went to a lot of trouble to set this up, and I want to know why. I need someone who can backtrack surveillance footage of the attack, and you’re the best I can think of.’

  Frost rolled her eyes. ‘Fuck off, Ryan. Flattery doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘I’m working on that. The attack happened ten minutes ago, on the 395 just west of Garfield Park. Can you access traffic-cam footage and figure out what happened?’

  She reached for her beer and downed the dregs. With her Agency security clearance, she could access virtually any police or civilian system. And like any technical specialist, her home set-up was easily on a par with anything she could put together at Langley.

  ‘Okay, fine. I’ll save the day for you – again. Just remember this shit the next time we’re discussing my annual bonus.’

  ‘No promises,’ he said. ‘Call me when you have something.’

  ‘What a novel idea.’

  He didn’t bother replying to that, and instead hung up.

  Tossing the phone on the bed for now, Frost stood up and scanned the discarded pile of clothes on the floor, finally finding her vest top and underwear. She tried to ignore Rick’s look of disappointment as she hurriedly dressed.

  ‘My boss. Duty calls,’ she said by way of apology. ‘Get your clothes on.’

  The younger man looked at her in disbelief. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, seriously.’ Reaching down, she grabbed his jeans and tossed them to him. ‘Sixty seconds from now you’re leaving, with or without your clothes.’

  Rick glared at her in annoyance, but nonetheless started to pull the jeans on.

  ‘Your boss is a real asshole, you know that?’

  Frost flashed a crooked smile. ‘Yeah. Yeah, he is.’

  Chapter 6

  Interstate 95, north of Washington, DC, 19 December 2008

  Anya was cruising north on the interstate highway in a rented Chevy Aveo, keeping her speed at a steady 70mph to avoid police attention. Just as well really, because she doubted the underpowered saloon was capable of much more.

  Still, she had made good progress in the past hour. After making her escape from the rooftop, it had been a brisk walk three blocks north to her car. She could have run such a distance easily, but running attracted attention. That was one thing she didn’t need today.

  Instead she chose a steady ground-covering pace that saw her in her car within five minutes. Nobody challenged her, nobody suspected her, nobody even paid attention to her in fact. She was a Caucasian woman, dressed in respectable clothes and displaying completely unthreatening behaviour. Why would they?

  She hadn’t even broken stride as a Metro PD cruiser roared past, sirens wailing and blue lights flashing. She had known the cops inside hadn’t seen her, just as the people she walked past on the street didn’t really see her. Living in a large city like DC, they were used to not seeing people.

  Less than seven minutes after the attack, and with emergency services only just starting to vector police units to the scene, she was in her car and on her way out of DC.

  Now, an hour later, she was approaching Wilmington; just one of thousands of other motorists rumbling down the big interstate highway.

  She exhaled, allowing herself to relax just a little. The first phase of the operation had been a success. She had done her part and escaped more or less without incident, leaving her free to move on to her next objective.

  But her relief was tempered by unease at the unexpected arrival of Drake in the very midst of the attack. Such interference had brought her to the edge of disaster. Had he interrupted at the crucial moment, she might have missed her shots entirely. Demochev would still be free, and her plan would have been in tatters.

  Her grip tightened on the wheel. Such an encounter simply couldn’t have been random chance – Anya had long ago stopped believing in coincidences. Her sniper position had been nowhere near his home or place of work, or any logical commuting route between the two. He’d been there because he’d intended to be, but why? And why had he drawn a weapon on her?

  She was reluctant to consider him a threat after everything they had been through together, but Drake’s interference was an unwelcome and dangerous variable in a plan that depended on many elements working together in perfect harmony, each event creating the conditions for the ones to follow. A man like him could unbalance everything, whether he intended to or not.

  She could not allow that to happen.

/>   She reached for the bottle of water in the cup holder to her right and took a drink. It wasn’t exactly champagne, but then she didn’t exactly feel like celebrating. A lot still had to happen for her to reach her goal, and as she had learned already tonight, a lot could still go wrong.

  She was just replacing the bottle when her cellphone buzzed with an incoming text message. Glancing down at it unobtrusively in case an unmarked police car happened to pull her over for the minor violation, she opened the message.

  Have dropped Brett off. He was very grateful. See you for drinks on Sunday.

  Anya wasn’t sure whether to feel good about that or not. ‘Brett’ was their code word for Demochev, which in this case meant he had given up the information they needed. She doubted he would have given it up willingly, though she preferred not to think about what had been done to him to force him to talk.

  In either case, he was certainly dead by now. If what she’d heard about him was true, his death wasn’t undeserved. Still, such things were out of her hands.

  She had other tasks to accomplish, chief amongst which was getting herself out of the United States as soon as possible. According to her dash-mounted GPS it was over 450 miles to the Canadian border, and another 50 or so more to Montreal International Airport.

  She had a long night ahead of her if she wanted to make her morning flight, and was beginning to wish she’d brought a Thermos of coffee for the ride. Settling back into the driver’s seat, she flicked on the radio and waited while it tuned to a local station.

  As she’d expected, it was dominated by coverage of the attack.

  Chapter 7

  By now well clear of the crime scene, Drake was ensconced in a small coffee shop near Union Station on the north-east side of central DC. His mood was as dark as the steaming liquid in his cup, not helped by the constant coverage of the sniper attack playing on a TV mounted above the service counter.

  Anya’s handiwork laid out for the world to see. But why?